


Evelyn

by Tokyo_the_Glaive



Series: Tumblr Shorts [4]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 12:58:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5709058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/pseuds/Tokyo_the_Glaive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Evelyn.</p><p>That’s the name that appeared on Bond’s skin when he was about twelve and a half.  He hadn’t expected to get one at all—the name of one’s soulmate rarely appears so late—but for days after the letters emerge from under his skin, he stared at them as best as he could.</p><p>The name wasn’t hard to see.  It was written on his chest, just down from his left shoulder.  He would trace the letters as a child and wonder.</p><p>“Evelyn,” Kincade said.  “I’m sure she’s a very pretty lady, eh?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted on tumblr and written for a prompt.

_Evelyn._

That’s the name that appeared on Bond’s skin when he was about twelve and a half.  He hadn’t expected to get one at all—the name of one’s soulmate rarely appears so late—but for days after the letters emerged from under his skin, he stared at them as best as he could.

The name wasn’t hard to see.  It was written on his chest, just down from his left shoulder.  He would trace the letters as a child and wonder.

_“Evelyn,” Kincade said.  “I’m sure she’s a very pretty lady, eh?”_

As a child, Bond had dared to hope so.  As an adult, Bond prefers not to think about his Evelyn at all.

(The name hasn’t vanished, so he knows she isn’t dead, but does he deserve her, whoever she is? He envisions someone beautiful, someone like Vesper but without the treachery.  She wouldn’t survive him.  He hates himself for that.)

Then comes Istanbul, and Bond’s shot off a train.  “Friendly fire”, indeed.  For the weeks following his miraculous survival, Bond feels twofold pain.  There’s the wound from the rifle, of course.  It itches as it heals, but before it closes, skin stretching thin to try to hold the human disaster that is James Bond together, it _burns_.  He can feel the shrapnel at first, cutting and slicing; he can feel the damaged muscle try and fail to knit itself back together.

It’s not the bullet that he thinks will kill him, though.  It’s the fact that Moneypenny blasted the name of his soulmate right off of his skin.  For weeks, Bond feels an ache all throughout his body.  He feels incomplete, hollow, _alone_.  He doesn’t know what happens to soulmates if the mark is destroyed, but if Moneypenny has done his Evelyn, wherever she is, any harm, Bond will rise from the dead and tear her arms off.

(He feels a swell in his chest at the thought.  He might not be a good match, _human disaster_ , but he’d protect his soulmate to his dying breath.)

* * *

Bond is shot off a train, and Q, not yet Q, goes down at his desk.  He screams, and he just can’t stop, there’s so much _pain_ —

He had lied about having a soulmate upon joining MI6—his name, _J_ _ames_ , was written at the base of his neck, just above where his hair ended.  The feeling that his head was going to split apart at any given moment, the smell of burning and all the rest—Q feels these things acutely for five days, during which he’s sedated to prevent him from screaming himself hoarse. It only takes MI6 two hours out of those five days to determine that Q has lied, and another ten seconds to determine the identity of Q’s _James_.

* * *

Someone attacks MI6.

“We need you to bring him back,” M tells Q firmly.  Q is painfully aware that he’s gotten his new title— _Q_ , what a lovely letter—because of what’s happened over the past few weeks.  If his soulmate had been anyone else, he would still be a junior quartermaster.  As it is, his “special relationship”, as people keep terming it, with one of the deadliest agents on record, coupled with the deaths of the old Q and R in the explosion that Q had not been there to experience, has gotten him many places.  The dust hasn’t even settled, and Q is Q.

“I don’t know how,” Q admits.

“Try,” M orders.

That night, Q focuses all of his attention on the soul mark on the back of his neck.  He pushes as much as he can into it and hopes that something happens.

* * *

The day of the MI6 explosion, when Bond hears, via the crusty television hanging in the corner of that godforsaken bar, that Vauxhall has been attacked, Bond feels that same ache in his shoulder.  He goes back to the woman he’s picked up— _Eser_ , that’s her name—and stays for a while.  He leans against the wall of the hut that qualifies as a home with her draped across him, tracing his chest.  All at once, she stops and sits up with a curse.

Pillows and a lamp end up thrown before Bond realizes the problem:  _Evelyn_ has emerged from underneath the scar tissue.  The letters are marred by the lumps, but it’s darker than it was before, somehow stronger.

Bond had told Eser he didn’t have a soulmate.  When she storms out he gathers his few possessions and makes preparations to go back to England.  He tells himself he doesn’t believe in signs, even as he eyes the letters in the mirror while he gets ready to leave.

The name makes removing the bullet fragments a lot harder.  Bond slices underneath his own skin, digging around the letters as best as he can.  He’s damaged Evelyn once, and he won’t do it again, not voluntarily.  When he’s removed the shrapnel and made a bloody mess of his chest without once touching the name, Bond has to smile at himself.  He feels foolish immediately afterward, but the feeling remains there at the back of his mind.

Then he meets Q.

Bond’s been cleared for active service again.  He hadn’t thought he qualified, but perhaps he doesn’t remember his own strength.  He sits in the National Gallery, staring at a painting that does nothing but mock him, waiting for the drop.

When he arrives, Bond looks—really looks—at Q.  He’s lovely to look at—dark hair and pale skin and such friendly eyes—but he’s offset by his angles, and by the fact that he’s likely half Bond’s age.  He stares at the painting to avoid looking at Q.

There’s only a hint, then.  Bond’s shoulder burns, for just a moment, as he takes the gun and the radio, and Q flinches as if he’s been hit.  Q leaves soon after.  Bond doesn’t think too much about it.

* * *

“You can’t tell him,” M tells Q later that day.  “Not yet.  He needs to finish this mission.”

“He suspects,” Q says.

“No,” M replies, “if he does, I’ll handle it.  Bond’s of the old school.  If you’re here, he wouldn’t leave your side.  It would kill him not to do his job.”  M watches as Q swallows.  She knows she has him hook, line, and sinker.  “You wouldn’t do that to your soulmate, would you?”

* * *

Bond goes after Patrice, then latches onto Silva.  When he next returns to England, he gravitates to Q like a planet in orbit.  Q wants to impress him, so he cracks the code—and everything goes pear-shaped remarkably fast.  From there, it’s all Q can do to keep up.  Bond’s asking him to guide him, then to take him off of the grid.  Q says _yes, yes, yes_.  It’s all he can say.

Bond likes Q, against all odds.  He’s mucked up entirely, and Silva’s on the run, but he’s agreeable.  Bond’s drawn to his good looks as he was before.  Q’s entirely his type, delectable and somehow other.  Bond would eat him alive if it weren’t a national emergency.

* * *

M dies.  Q feels it before it happens: a wash of grief in the form of a shiver, starting at the base of his neck.  He’s with Tanner, where they’ve been since Q set his trap for Silva, and when he tells Tanner to get helicopters to Bond’s location, Tanner doesn’t argue.  Soulmates know these sorts of things, Q reasons.  Tanner already knew about his  _condition_ , but that doesn’t make it any easier to withstand his pitying looks.  Q balls his hands into fists and waits for Bond to return.

* * *

When Bond comes back, he seeks out Q without considering why.  He’s drunk, he supposes, and more than a little out of sorts.   _Grief_ , the medics had said.   _Shock_.  Bond had never given either of those words much credence.  He doesn’t start now.

“What’s your name?” Bond asks, leaning heavily against Q’s workstation.  There are medics trying to get into Q Branch to retrieve Bond, but at Bond’s request, Q has locked the doors.

“I beg your pardon?” Q asks.  His face is pale, so pale.

“Your name,” Bond says.  “You know who I am.”

“Bond, James Bond,” Q says.  He means it as a joke, Bond can see, but Bond’s being serious.  He can’t get the words out, but he wants to thank someone other than Q.  He’d known M— _Olivia_ —and he’d like to know someone else.  “I’m Q, Bond.”

Bond sighs, his shoulders dropping.  “Evelyn,” he mutters.

Q stills, but Bond’s not looking.

“I need you to find Evelyn.”

Q promises he will.  Bond allows himself to be lead away, down to Medical, where he’ll be poked and prodded into submission and possibly a vacation.  He has a sinking feeling in his gut that he doesn’t think belongs to him, but what does he know? He’s had more to drink in the past two hours than he’s had in the past two months.

* * *

With Bond out of sight, Q sits and puts his head in his hands.  He feels cold, and sick.  He doesn’t know what to do.  Slowly, he packs his things and leaves the building.  No one tries to stop him.  A few of the guards nod at him as he passes.

In the safety of his own flat, Q presses himself against his tiny mattress for one and tries to breathe.


	2. II

Bond spends a week in a stupor.  First, it’s medically induced: MI6 sends him to his hotel room—he still hasn’t had time to get himself a proper flat again, much less start to rebuild his life—with a bag full of drugs.  Bond takes them liberally, though he hates himself for it.  He hates the feeling of powerlessness one gets when high, but he feels worse without them—it feels real without them—so he takes what he can without killing himself.

The drugs run out before Bond has the sense of self-preservation to wean himself off of them, so the next day is spent in a haze.  Half-delirious, he knows he’s made a mistake.

When that period ends and clarity returns, Bond knows he’s made not one but _several_ mistakes.  His conversation with Q, that last one, awkward and stilted, comes back to Bond full-force.

 _“I need you to find Evelyn.”_  That’s what Bond had said.  Of course, Q probably knew Evelyn was Bond’s soulmate, what with administrative access and all that.  Bond has to close his eyes.  It’s about as embarrassing as an adult calling for their mother after skinning a knee.  Soulmates can provide emotional grounding; Bond’s all but begged for a teddy bear.

* * *

Q wonders what Bond’s doing.

He knows, by virtue of the fact that he feels no pain, that Bond’s not physically hurt.  He knows, too, that whatever emotional pain Bond has, it’s under wraps: Q can’t feel a damn thing.  Soulmates can, in theory, feel the emotions and sensations of one another, but only after some time together and with some effort.  Q had only been able to feel Bond at his extreme moments.  Q doubts Bond’s ever felt any of Q’s emotions or sensations before.  He wonders if Bond would care if he had.  Probably not, he reassures himself.  Bond has no need for a soulmate.

* * *

The last few days of the week Bond gives himself for vacation, he considers calling Q.  He’d asked Q to find Evelyn.  Since the damage was done, he could either ignore it, which seemed to admit that it was a mistake, or else follow up, which would at least let him take ownership for his actions.  Still, he hesitates as he holds his mobile.  Perhaps it's best to wait a little longer.  There’s no harm in that, is there?

On the eighth day, Bond shows up at Vauxhall dressed and ready to go.  He stands in Mallory’s office until the man caves and agrees to have him go through a physical.   _Another one_ , Bond thinks sourly, but it’s the only way to get back into the field and get sharp again.  Bond feels his fingers twitching and his skin itching to go somewhere, do something.  He almost doesn’t care what sort of an operation it is, so long as he has a job to do.  He doesn’t do well without a mission, certainly doesn’t do well alone, with only his thoughts and personal demons to keep him company.

* * *

Bond’s been cleared for fieldwork once more.  It’s getting to be old hat now, and no one’s surprised by the outcome, least of all Q.  His aim’s improving steadily, has been ever since he came back the first time, and he’s nearly back to what he was at his peak.  Q hears the whispers, though: Bond’s old.  People are waiting for him to fail.  Eventually, every body breaks down.  Double-0s don’t have a particularly long shelf life.  To most, Bond’s just a time bomb.

Q doesn’t agree, but he’s also concerned about what happens when Bond fails.  Q had felt he was going to die when Bond was hit; would he die for real if Bond did?  There are reports of it, the death of one triggering the death of the soulmate.  It’s not common, but it sends a shiver down Q’s spine.  He resolves not to think about it.  He’s resolving that about a lot of things lately.

 _Evelyn_.

There’s a box Q has no intention of opening.  What good would it do?

_It would kill him not to do his job.  You wouldn’t do that to your soulmate, would you?_

Q clears his mind.  To Bond, he’s not Evelyn, he’s Q.  That’s that.

* * *

Because Bond’s been cleared for fieldwork, he’s been given a mission.  A mission means equipment, and equipment means a visit to Q.

“No fancy drop this time?” Bond calls as he enters Q’s domain.  The junior quartermasters stare at him, but look away the moment Bond tries to meet their gazes.  They’re afraid.  Bond smirks.

“I was afraid it would boost your ego to astronomical proportions,” Q says.  He doesn’t look at Bond.  As Bond approaches, he sees that Q’s fiddling with something Bond can’t see.

“That’s for me, then?” Bond asks.

Q looks at him over his glasses.  “No,” he says.  “I reward agents who return my equipment, preferably in one piece.”  When Q sets his gadget down, Bond sees that it looks, for all intents and purposes, like an earring, and a lovely one at that.

“Too bad,” Bond says, “I think they’d look rather fetching on me.”

Q sends Bond a long-suffering look and gestures toward his left.  “Your equipment’s over there,” Q says.

“What, not even going to give it to me?” Bond asks.  “Cheeky.”

“You shouldn’t be walking right now, much less going on an operation.”

Bond takes it in stride.  “There’s something to be said about indispensability.”

Q huffs.  In place of a witty retort, he fetches Bond’s equipment.

“There,” Q says.  “If a Komodo dragon eats this one, you’re better off not coming back at all.”

Bond smiles and starts to leave.

* * *

It comes to a head at that moment.

Bond’s back is turned, so he’s not entirely sure of the order of things.  One of the junior quartermasters has a box—a heavy box—that needs to be put by Q’s desk.  Q has a mug of tea and isn’t paying attention to anything else.  The quartermaster trips, the box flies, and Bond feels all of the air leave his chest.

The phantom sensation catches him off guard as he momentarily struggles to breathe.  He turns to see Q on the floor, pinned down by a rather large box, as several quartermasters struggle to lift it off of him.  Q’s winded but otherwise uninjured, though the same can’t be said for his mug, which shattered upon impact, or his cardigan, which appears irreparably stained.

Bond catches Q’s eye.  There’s guilt there.  He walks right back to Q, hauls him to his feet, and drags him to the tiny office Q never uses, the one he’s been given until the building is entirely repaired.

* * *

 

Bond doesn’t speak.  That somehow makes it worse.

“Thanks,” Q says, adjusting his glasses.  The door is shut, his cardigan is soaked, and he can’t think of a worse way for this day to go.  Since Bond refuses to talk, Q removes his cardigan and eyes it warily.

“I suppose it’ll need the cleaners,” he murmurs.

“You lied,” Bond says.  Q notes that his tone is carefully neutral and understands that he’s in very, very dangerous territory.

“I didn’t lie,” Q says.  Glib probably isn’t the right approach, but Q presses on anyway.  “You never asked.”

Bond’s eyes glint dangerously.  Definitely not the right approach.

“M told me not to tell you,” Q says.

“Mallory,” Bond spits.

“No,” Q corrects.  He watches the worst of Bond’s malice retreat from his expression.  “James is a rather common name.  I didn’t know until you were shot off a bridge.”

“You felt that,” Bond says.

Q shrugs.  “She insisted I try to bring you back.  I didn’t know how.  Turns out you came back by yourself.  I considered telling you, she said you wouldn’t like that, so here we are.”  Q spreads his hands.

There’s something uneasy in his expression when Q mentions Bond’s return.

“You’re Evelyn,” Bond confirms.

Q frowns.  “Yes,” he says.  “And you’re James.”

Bond’s shoulders slump.  Q doesn’t know what to do, so he doesn’t move.  He feels like he’s in a dream, or else a play where he’s the only one who doesn’t know his lines.

After some time, Bond begins to speak.  He tells Q about being shot, about the soul mark returning.  Q wants to sit down, wants to _process_ , but there are twenty quartermasters outside waiting for him to return, and Bond’s due to be on a plane.  Q’s not prepared for any of this, not right now.

When Bond’s finished, he looks at Q—really looks.

“What did you feel?” Bond asks finally.  “When I was shot.”

Q freezes.  He’s been frozen, but now his throat can’t even move.  If he tells Bond—what then?  Will he leave, possibly to die, knowing what he put Q through last time?   _It would kill him not to do his job_.

“You’re doubting,” Bond says, and Q knows he’s sunk because if Bond can tell that, he’ll know if Q lies.

The truth doesn’t take very long.  By the end of it, Bond’s tense, his expression stormy.

“I could have killed you,” Bond says.  His voice is soft enough to disappear in the shadowed space.

“It’s fine,” Q says.  Bond’s eyes take on a hard look, but Q knows he’s made another mistake even before he registers the expression.  It’s not fine, not at all—Bond nearly did kill him, could have killed him with every mission he’s been on and every mission since.

Bond’s mobile _pings_ in his pocket.  His escort, Q thinks.  Bond’s meant to be taking a car to the airport right now.

“Wait here,” Bond says.  Q’s eyes widen as Bond sweeps out of his office.

“No,” Q says.

Bond doesn’t listen.  He’s out of Q’s realm before Q can open his mouth again.

* * *

“Absolutely not,” Mallory spits.

Bond stands before him, arms folded, angry.

“I’m not going,” Bond insists.

“I pulled every string,” Mallory says, “to get you back into the field, and now _this_?”

“You didn’t tell me.”

Mallory’s hand comes down on his desk, hard.  “You weren’t to be told because of exactly this eventuality,” Mallory says.  “Olivia knew it—” Bond bristles; he doesn’t like hearing her name spoken by anyone, even now, “and I know it.  We need you, not some half-arsed shell of you, trying to protect your soulmate.  You can’t have both, Bond.”

“Then you have my resignation.”

The look on Mallory’s face could have incinerated a lesser man.

* * *

Q catches up with Bond just outside of Mallory’s office.

“Bond,” Q says.

“James,” Bond corrects.  He smiles, and it’s horribly wrong.

“This is a bad idea,” Q calls into Mallory’s office.

“Which one?” Mallory calls back.  “Your domestic or his resignation?”

Q feels himself colour with shame and rage.  Bond steps in front of him as if—Q laughs, as if to shield him from Mallory.

“Listen,” Q says to Bond, “listen.  There’s no reason—”

“I’m not getting you killed,” Bond says.

“You don’t want to quit,” Q tries.

“I’m not doing this if it’s going to kill the wrong people,” Bond says.

Q takes in a deep breath.   _This isn’t happening_ , he thinks.  Any moment now he’s going to wake up and it’s all going to have been a dream.

He doesn’t wake up.  “You don’t want to quit,” Q says.  “You’re going to get on that plane and you’re going to do your job and I’m going to make sure you don’t die.”

Bond gives that horrible smile again because Q’s right: he doesn’t want to quit.  “You can’t be sure of that,” Bond says.  It’s gentle and utterly out of character.  Q almost hates him for it.

“No, I can’t,” Q says, “any more than I’m sure I won’t be hit by a cab.  But I can walk you through it as best as I can, and we can do it together.”

 _Together_.  It’s an odd concept, particularly for Bond, but Q knows its his only bet at making this work.  Mallory’s quiet in his office, and Bond’s eyes are watching Q so, so carefully.

“Evelyn—“

Q shakes his head.  “I’m Evelyn and you’re James,” he says.  “That’s what we’ll be.  But in this building, you’re 007, I’m Q, and we both have a job to do, so let’s bloody well do it so that we can get to the rest of it.”

* * *

Bond gets on the plane.  He hates himself for it, almost hates Q for talking him onto it, but he’s on the plane.

* * *

Q watches Bond get on the plane.  He hates himself for talking Bond onto it.  They have little time as it is; do they have to make it shorter, gambling like this?

They do, Q knows.  It doesn’t make him like the reality of it any more or less.

* * *

Bond stays on the grid for the duration of his operation.  Q talks him through it, and he comes home.  Q’s there to pick him up when he disembarks.

They go to Q’s flat because Bond still doesn’t have one of his own.  There, Bond is James and Q is Evelyn.  It’s awkward—neither of them knows quite what they’re doing—until Bond confesses: “I thought Evelyn was a girl’s name.”

Q hits him over the head with a pillow, and Bond laughs and offers tea as compensation (while griping about the lack of coffee).

* * *

“Right here,” Q says.  His back is to Bond, and he’s holding up his curls as best as he can.

Bond smiles.  “I see it,” he says.  He traces the letters as best as he can.  “You grow through me,” Bond murmurs.  He places a kiss there, and Q shudders.  “Too much?” Bond asks.

Q turns around.  “I want to see mine,” he says.  It’s childish, but Bond had asked first, so he feels entitled.

Bond begins unbuttoning his shirt, and Q’s face flushes.

“Not quite, love,” Bond says.  Q wants to whack him again before he realizes that Bond’s not stripping to be sexy.

“Oh,” Q says, because what else is there to say?  The scar tissue’s made the letters bumpy, but there it is.

“I like it,” Q says.  Bond snorts.  “What?”

“Come here,” Bond says.  He pulls Q in close, his chin atop Q’s head.  Q laughs, his cheek pressed against Bond’s chest.

 _This could work_ , he thinks.

* * *

 _This could work_ , Bond thinks.  Q’s cradled in his arms.  He’s a bit bony, possibly underfed, but they belong to each other.  They can work out the details as they go.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Maths Did Add Up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5725513) by [BoredPsychopath_JC](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoredPsychopath_JC/pseuds/BoredPsychopath_JC)




End file.
